The Cockney Angel - Chapter 1

Wood Street , Cheapside 1865 She was alone on a bleak street corner; daylight was fading and the grey stone buildings loomed above her like eyeless monoliths. Tiny, terrified and just five-years-old, Irene bit her lower lip in an attempt to prevent herself from crying. She shivered as pellets of sleety rain slapped her cheeks and pooled around her bare feet. The pavement was ice-cold and her threadbare garments were no protection against the elements. Soon it would be completely dark and she had lost sight of her father who was so busy taking illegal bets that he seemed to have forgotten her existence. She wanted to go home to Ma, but she did not dare move. She was on the lookout for coppers. It was her job and she must not let Pa down. Cops were the enemy – Pa said so. In desperation she sought shelter in the doorway of a big building but a man in uniform appeared from the interior, scowling at her and telling her to clear off. His bewhiskered face towered above her and she stared transfixed by fear at the purple thread-like veins that spread like a spider’s web across his cheeks. His breath smelt like sour milk and a dewdrop hung from the tip of his bulbous nose. The brass buttons on his jacket were as big as pennies and she was certain he was one of them. ‘Pa,’ she screamed. ‘It’s the cops.’ But there was no reassuring reply to her agitated cries. Blind panic overtook her and she began to run …. Gripped by a cold sweat, Irene opened her eyes and snapped into a sitting position. She breathed a sigh of relief as she realised that it was the noisy, quarrelsome inhabitants of the ancient plane tree on the corner of Wood Street that had awakened her from the recurring nightmare which had haunted her since childhood. For once she welcomed the dawn chorus of rooks cawing to each other like a raucous band of fishwives. She yawned and stretched her stiff limbs. It was just a dream after all, and she was safe at home in the family’s cramped living quarters above the pickle shop. Heaven knows, she was used to lying on the floor with only a straw-filled palliasse between her body and the rough hewn bare boards, but the nights were growing colder now that autumn was here. Soon winter would claim the city. Pea-souper fogs would smother the streets in an evil-smelling blanket, and then the frosts would set in followed by rain and snow. She raised herself to a kneeling position, moving slowly so that she did not disturb her sleeping parents, but a quick glance at the old iron bedstead revealed just one small shape huddled beneath the coverlet. She shook her head. So Pa was up to his old tricks and had not come home last night after all. He must have had a good hand of cards to keep him from his bed, although it was not uncommon for him to return in the early hours of the morning reeking of cheap grog and tobacco smoke, more than a little tipsy, but never violent. She sat on her haunches, deliberating whether or not to go looking for him. It wouldn’t be the first time she had gone on such a mission and found him sleeping off the excesses of celebrating a good win, or having imbibed too freely in order to drown his sorrows after making a heavy loss. Pa would gamble on anything from a toss of the die, a dog fight, or two flies crawling up a windowpane. When his luck was in he would bring home his winnings, which would sometimes be enough to keep them in relative comfort for a whole year, but of course the money never lasted that long. Billy Angel could never allow a sure thing to pass him by. Money slipped through his fingers as fast as the waters of the River Thames flowed through London . A muffled moan from the bed and the groaning of rusty springs indicated that her mother was also awake, and probably in pain from the chronic arthritis that gnawed at her joints, twisting her fingers and toes into gnarled lumps liked the knotted branches of the plane tree. A sliver of anxiety shafted through Irene’s stomach. She hated to see her much-loved mother suffering from the debilitating illness. Ma had always been a tower of strength before she was laid so low. She had borne the trials that had beset the family with such courage and good humour that it seemed unfair she should be the one to suffer now. Irene wished with all her heart that there was something she could do other than stand by unable to do anything that would relieve Ma of her pain. ‘Are you all right,’ she whispered. Clara Angel raised herself with difficulty but she managed a smile. ‘Just a bit stiff, ducks. Nothing to worry about.’ She glanced at the empty space in the bed and her lips trembled. ‘I stayed awake half the night waiting for the sound of his key in the lock, but now I’m really worried. I hope he’s all right.’ Irene scrambled to her feet. ‘Of course he is, Ma,’ she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful. ‘It ain’t as if it’s the first time Pa’s stayed out all night. He’ll probably turn up any minute with a bad head and a pocket full of money.’ ‘Then he’ll be gasping for a cup of tea. I’ll get the fire started if you’ll fetch water from the pump, Renie.’ Clara swung her legs over the side of the bed and her face contorted with pain. ‘Silly old legs are playing up a bit this morning. There must be rain in the air.’ ‘Take it slow, Ma. There’s no need to rush.’ Irene reached for her stays and fastened them over her shift. She yanked at the laces reducing her waist to a mere hand’s span before slipping on her much-darned cotton blouse and linsey-woolsey skirt, which has also seen better days. Lastly, she thrust her bare feet into her ill-fitting second-hand boots and she bent down to tie the laces. ‘I’m off then. I’ll call in at the dairy and get some fresh milk.’ ‘Get a loaf too, love. There should be just enough money left in the tin. Your Pa will be starving when he gets home.’ Clara slid off the bed and pushed her feet into an old pair of men’s dancing slippers; the only form of footwear that would accommodate her deformed feet without causing her excruciating pain. Irene took the battered cocoa tin from the mantelshelf and tipped its contents into the palm of her hand. Twopence was not going to go far, but it was all they had. ‘Is there anything I can do for you before I go, Ma?’ ‘I’m fine, ducks,’ Clara said, with a ghost of a smile. ‘Just give me a minute to get me old bones moving. I’ll be down in the shop before you get back from the bakery.’ Irene knew better than to argue or to appear over-sympathetic. Ma might be as fragile as a jenny wren, but she was a proud woman, and not one to give in easily to infirmity. She snatched her shawl from its hook behind the door, wrapping it around her shoulders as she ascended the steep wooden staircase to the tiny shop below, with its crudely-plastered, white-washed walls and low ceiling it was little larger than a cupboard but the small income it provided had kept them from the workhouse when times were bad. The pungent smell of pickled onions and vinegar caught her at the back of her throat, causing her to cough as she crossed the flagstone floor in two steps to take milk jug from beneath the counter. She picked up a wooden pail and looped the handle over her arm before unlocking the shop door and stepping outside. The air was pleasantly cool and the sun was just breaking through a bank of grey clouds. The sound of the rooks squabbling in the plane tree was louder than a school yard filled with noisy children. The flapping of their wings sent showers of dead leaves floating down to carpet the pavement in bronze and gold like a hoard of pirates’ treasure. In stark contrast the cobbled street was strewn with mouldy straw, horse dung and the occasional carcass of a dead rat, left half-eaten by the feral cats that roamed the city after dark. The night soil collector was doing his rounds and the stench from his cart preceded him. An aged crossing sweeper leaned against his broom, still apparently half-asleep, until a brewer’s dray pulled by two study carthorses almost knocked him down. He leapt out of the way, shaking his fist at the driver who shouted a stream of obscenities with a cheerful grin and a rude gesture as he drove on. Irene picked up her skirts and started off towards the pump, but there was a long queue of people waiting to take their turn and she decided to go to the dairy first. Having filled her jug with creamy milk, she went on to the bakery where she bought a loaf of bread hot from the oven. When she returned to the pump she found just a handful of people standing patiently in line, and with a resigned sigh she took her place behind young Sal Hawker, a maid who worked for the silk merchant whose house was situated a few doors away from the shop. Sal was always ready to impart a tasty bit of gossip, and not seeming to have any luck with the dour-faced matron standing in front of her, she turned her head and spotted Irene with a delighted smile. Once started, Sal was only too pleased to pass on the news that Janet, the daughter of Rattray the fan maker and his snooty wife who thought herself a cut above the rest of the neighbourhood, was in the family way by a married man. Irene could not share Sal’s obvious pleasure in this piece of news. She was extremely sorry for Janet. The poor girl was unlucky enough to have a toffee-nosed mother and a father who would not say boo to a goose, let alone his domineering wife. Mrs Rattray had always made it clear that she looked down on the daughter of a notorious gambler and a woman who sold pickles for a living, and Irene wondered how she would react to the news that her one and only daughter was about to have an illegitimate child. She made appropriate noises in response to Sal’s tittle-tattling, although it was almost impossible to get a word in edgeways. Irene was quite relieved when it was Sal’s turn at the pump as the strenuous exercise of drawing water kept her quiet for a few minutes. A shout from an upstairs window of the silk merchant’s house sent the maid scurrying off in response to an angry summons from a red-faced woman wearing a white mobcap. Taking Sal’s place, Irene filled her bucket and was about to heft it off the ground when a man’s hand covered hers. ‘Allow me, young lady.’ She straightened up and smiled with genuine pleasure at the sight of her oldest and best friend. ‘Hello, Artie. You’re up and about early.’ Arthur Greenwood doffed his top hat and grinned. ‘Haven’t been to bed yet, girl.’ He lifted the heavy bucket with ease and fell in step beside her. ‘You’re as bad as my pa,’ Irene said, with a heartfelt sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen him recently, have you?’ ‘Didn’t the old devil come home last night?’ She shook her head. ‘As a matter of fact I did see Billy,’ Arthur said, dodging a large turnip that had fallen from a costermonger’s barrow. ‘He was at the Sykes brothers place in Blue Boar Court .’ ‘What time was that?’ ‘Past midnight, I wasn’t exactly keeping an eye on the clock.’ He winked at her and patted his jacket pocket. ‘Won a packet, I did. D’you fancy a night out?’ ‘Not at the sort of places you’d be likely to take me.’ ‘That’s not fair. I know how to treat a lady.’ Irene pulled a face. ‘That’s ripe, coming from a fellah who once took me ratting. I was sick for a week afterwards.’ ‘Well, I admit that wasn’t one of my better ideas, but it was a long time ago.’ ‘It was three years ago and I was just fifteen.’ ‘I was just a boy then.’ ‘You were two years older than me and you should have known better.’ ‘I won’t make the same mistake again,’ Arthur said, tweaking a lock of Irene’s hair that had worked its way loose from the knot at the nape of her neck. ‘C’mon, Renie, I’m flush for a change thanks to my winning streak.’ Irene frowned. ‘What am I going to do with you? You’ve got to stop gambling now, before it takes you like it did my pa.’ ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ Arthur said with a mischievous grin. ‘Last night was the last time. Honest.’ ‘I’ve heard Pa say that more times than I can count. You’ve got to mean it, Artie. Stop now, or it will be too late.’ Despite her stern words, Irene couldn’t help smiling. It was impossible to be cross with Arthur for long, even if he did sometimes drive her to distraction. When he smiled his green eyes crinkled at the corners and his cheeks dimpled, giving him the look of a mischievous satyr. He was always joking and teasing her, but just being with him made the day seem brighter. They had arrived outside the shop and Arthur stopped, setting the bucket down on the step. ‘I won’t get like Billy, that I can promise you.’ ‘I hope not, Artie, I really do.’ Irene unlocked the door and opened it. ‘Are you coming in to see Ma?’ He shook his head. ‘Not now. In fact, I’d better get a move on or I’ll find myself looking for another apprenticeship. My old man might be the best silversmith in London but I’m sure he’s the worst tempered man in the city.’ ‘When do you take your journeyman’s exam?’ Irene asked, changing the subject. She had seen Cuthbert Greenwood in one of his tempers and she knew that what Arthur said was no exaggeration but it wouldn’t do to dwell on it just now. ‘In less than a month’s time. If I happen to pass, which I rather doubt at this moment, I’ll be able to work for myself and I won’t have to listen to the old devil ranting at me and saying I’m a disappointment to him.’ ‘Fathers!’ Irene said with feeling. ‘I love mine even though he drives me mad at times. I wish I knew where he was at this minute.’ ‘Stop worrying about Billy and say you’ll come out with me tonight. We’ll sample some of their steak pudding at the Old Cheshire Cheese and maybe go to a penny gaff afterwards. What d’you say to that?’ ‘It sounds fine, but if my pa doesn’t turn up soon I’ll have to spend the rest of the day looking for him. It could take a while to go round all his old haunts.’ ‘I think you’re wasting your time. Anyway, they won’t let you in. Women aren’t allowed in the gaming rooms.’ ‘I know that, and I don’t hold with gaming hells or any kind of gambling, but sometimes I’m just a little curious to see inside one. I can’t think what the attraction is and I’d like to find out first hand. Then, just maybe I could understand Pa a bit better and try to persuade him to mend his ways.’ Arthur shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think it’s more complicated than that, Renie. Gambling is like a fever that gets into a fellow’s blood. It’s not easy to stop. Anyway, I’d best get to work.’ ‘Good boy,’ Irene said, giving him a gentle shove. ‘Go and make something splendid in silver for the toffs to eat off or drink out of, while I go and sell pickles and sauces. You may think you’re hard done by, but sometimes I think I’ll never get the smell of onions and vinegar out of my hair.’ He leaned towards her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘My favourite perfume, ducks. See you tonight.’ He doffed his hat with a flourish and swaggered off in the direction of Silver Street . Somewhat reluctantly, Irene stepped over the threshold into the gloomy interior of the shop. Having deposited the milk and bread on the counter, she went back to retrieve the heavy bucket of water, taking care not to spill any of the precious liquid, as it would have to do for all their needs until she made a return visit to the pump. She looked up hopefully as she heard a footstep on the stairs, but it was just her mother making her painful descent. ‘Oh, it’s you, Irene,’ Clara said, pausing to catch her breath. ‘I thought it might be your dad come home.’ ‘No, it’s only me. I’ll make us some tea and then I’ll go looking for him.’ ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, love. You know it makes him angry when we fuss. Anyway, I need you in the shop this morning. Mr Yapp will be making a delivery and me hands is too painful to stack the bottles and jars on the shelves. But a cup of tea would be lovely, and a piece of toast would go down well. I got the fire going upstairs so it shouldn’t take long.’ After a hasty breakfast of tea and toast, Irene insisted that her mother went back to bed in order to catch up on some of the sleep she had lost worrying about her errant husband. Sometimes Irene despaired of Pa and this was one of those moments. With all the love in the world she had to admit that he had many faults. It was true that he could charm the rooks from the plane tree if he put his mind to it, but at the best of times he was irresponsible, and at his worst he was outrageously feckless. At forty-five he was still a handsome devil with flashing brown eyes and hair that gleamed black like the best coal. He loved life but never took anything seriously, especially when it came to earning an honest living and providing for his family. And yet, for all his many failings, to Irene he was a dashing corsair and she could never hold his misdemeanours against him – at least, not for long. She struggled to cope with his addiction to gambling and she grew impatient with him when he showed little concern for her mother’s ill-health. Then by something close to a miracle, he would redeem himself by coming home with some frippery that he had picked up in a street market, or a bunch of flowers that were more than likely to have been stolen from a graveyard, which he would present to his wife with the aplomb of a great stage actor. Irene smiled to herself at the very thought of it. Occasionally, she felt that she was his senior and that he was little more than a wayward child, and that made her feel even more protective towards him. She spun round at the sound of the door opening, but it was only Yapp’s boy, Danny Priest. ‘Delivery for you, miss.’ Through the grimy windowpanes Irene could see Yapp’s cart laden with wooden crates and wicker baskets lined with straw and filled with bottles and jars of pickles and sauce. ‘Ta, Danny. Bring it in, if you please.’ He backed out of the door gazing at her with moonstruck eyes. Irene gave him an encouraging smile. Danny could not be more than twelve or thirteen, and he was a skinny little monkey of a boy, all gangly arms and legs that did not seemed to be properly coordinated. He blushed beneath his freckles whenever she spoke to him and he was so eager to please her that he almost fell over himself in his efforts. She watched him rush over to the cart and lift off a box which was so heavy that he had to bend almost in two in order to prevent it from dropping onto the cobblestones. With an obvious effort, he straightened up and staggered into the shop, turning red in the face and with his pale blue eyes bulging. He managed to heft it onto the counter setting it down so hard that the glass jars jangled together. A look of consternation puckered his face. ‘Old Yapp will beat the daylights out of me if I’ve broke anything.’ ‘I’m sure there’s no harm done,’ Irene said, keeping her eye on Yapp who was perched on the driver’s seat of his cart with a clay pipe clenched between his teeth. He peered through the window scowling at Danny, and his hand went automatically to clutch the large horse whip at his side. Irene smiled and waved to him. ‘Morning, Mr Yapp,’ she mouthed. He nodded curtly and she saw his fingers relax on the whip handle. ‘Ta, miss,’ Danny said, gazing at her as if she had sprouted wings and a halo. ‘You’re a blooming angel, that’s what you are.’ ‘If only that were true,’ she said patting him on the shoulder. ‘Best get on with your work, or you’ll be in real trouble with old Yapp and I wouldn’t want that to happen.’ Danny made a grab for a basket of bottles and shot out of the door, dodging a cuff round the ear from Yapp, as he deposited the basket of empties in the cart and picked up one that was ready for delivery. He staggered back into the shop and dumped the basket on the counter. ‘Cash on delivery, the boss says,’ he said breathlessly. Irene reached beneath the counter for the cash box. She opened it and frowned. Yesterday’s takings had been reasonably good, but all that remained now was a threepenny bit and a handful of coppers. There was only one person who would rob the till and he still had not made an appearance. She looked up and met Danny’s anxious gaze. ‘I’m afraid I can’t settle the account in full, but I will have the right amount later in the day.’ Danny shook his head and his bottom lip trembled. ‘He’ll beat me if I don’t get the cash, miss. You know he don’t allow credit.’ She emptied the coins onto the counter and pushed them towards him. ‘Take this to Mr Yapp and tell him that I need an hour or two, but he will be paid by close of business today. I promise.’ ‘I’ll tell him but he won’t like it.’ A shout from Yapp made Danny glance nervously out of the window. He scooped up the coins and hurried from the shop. Irene watched as the boy handed the money to his master, receiving yet another clout round the head for his pains. Yapp stood up in the well of the cart and for a moment Irene thought that he was going to climb down and come blustering into the shop, but he shook his fist at her mouthing words that she was glad she could not hear. Having apparently vented his feelings he slumped down on the seat and cracked the whip over the horse’s rump causing the poor animal to lurch forwards. Danny was left to run along behind until he gathered enough speed to take a flying leap onto the footplate at the back of the cart. Praying silently that Pa would return home soon with at least some of his winnings intact, Irene set about the task of stacking the shelves with jars of Yapp’s Best Pickled Onions, beetroot and mustard pickle. She lined them up like soldiers on the parade ground, and having satisfied herself that all the labels were clearly visible and any stickiness had been wiped clean, she started on the bottles of sauce. Taking each glass container from its nest of straw, she wiped and polished them until they sparkled in the shredded shafts of sunlight that filtered through the small windowpanes. Tomato, anchovy and hot chilli sauce with tamarind were all specialities created by Obadiah Yapp, as he was proud to tell anyone who was prepared to listen. As a young man he had joined the army and when his regiment was sent to India he had developed a taste for hot and exotic foods. On his return home he had missed the spicy condiments with which they flavoured their food, and had experimented until he discovered the exact recipe that would titillate the taste buds of Londoners. Irene had heard the story so many times that she knew it by heart. She set the last bottle on the shelf and stacked the boxes and baskets beneath the counter to await collection. It was still early and trade was slow, but as the morning wore on a gradual trickle of customers came through the door to make their purchases. Irene kept glancing anxiously at the clock on the wall and every time the door opened her hopes were raised, only to be dashed when it was not her father who walked through the door. Clara came downstairs at midday, looking pale but slightly less drawn than she had first thing. She leaned against the newel post at the foot of the stairs. ‘He hasn’t come home then?’ Irene was quick to hear the note of despair in her mother’s voice and she forced herself to smile cheerfully. ‘Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll arrive any minute now with a sore head and feeling very sorry for hisself.’ ‘I don’t know, Irene. I got a bad feeling about this. He’s usually home afore noon. I heard the church clock strike twelve and that’s what woke me.’ ‘Do you want me to go looking for him, Ma?’ Irene glanced out through the window at the sunny street. Suddenly she longed to be free from the dark little shop with its low ceiling supported by beams that resembled the spreading roots of the great plane tree. Sometimes it felt as though the tree itself was reaching into the room to strangle and overpower her. Spending twelve hours a day behind the counter was not her idea of fun, nor was it her chosen path in life, but Ma needed her. Unless Pa mended his ways, which was very unlikely, she knew she knew that there was little chance of leading her own life. Sometimes she almost envied her older sister Emmie who had married the first man who came along as a means of escape. She had married Josiah Tippets, a middle-aged draper with a taste for mustard pickles and a house in Love Lane . He had buried two wives and had apparently been on the lookout for a third when he came into the shop and had laid eyes on Emily, who was quick to spot the main chance. Emmie was a sweet girl and a loving sister, but Irene had to admit that she had always had ideas above her station, and now she fancied herself as quite a lady, wed to a man who was a well-respected member of the Drapers’ Company and who cherished hopes of becoming an alderman before too long. ‘Would you, ducks?’ Her mother’s voice broke into Irene’s thoughts, dragging her back to the present. ‘Of course, Ma. I’ll find him and bring him home safe and sound.’ ‘Don’t go too far then. Just take a walk around the courts and alleys where he goes at night, and if you see any of his mates you might ask them if they know where he might be found.’ Clara’s voice broke on a sob and she clutched her hand to her throat. ‘I’m afraid he might have been set upon by thieves and left for dead in the gutter somewhere. My poor Billy.’ Tears welled in her eyes and she raised her apron to cover her face. Irene hurried round the counter to hook her arm around her mother’s shoulders and she led her to a bentwood chair that was normally reserved for privileged customers. She pressed her gently down onto its hard seat. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Ma. It’s just your imagination taking over. Pa can look after hisself. I expect he’s just lost track of time. You know how he is when his luck is in.’ ‘I know I’m probably worrying over nothing, but I just can’t get these thoughts out of me head.’ Irene snatched up her shawl. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, and you mustn’t worry or you’ll make yourself ill. Trade’s slow today, so you shouldn’t be too busy while I’m gone.’ ‘You’re such a thoughtful girl,’ Clara said, wiping her eyes. ‘I dunno what I’d do without you.’ ‘I’ll be back in two shakes of a cat’s tail, you see if I don’t, and I’ll bring Pa home with me.’ Irene stepped outside into the warm sunshine of a late September afternoon. Wood Street was now thronged with horse-drawn vehicles both private and commercial. Hansom cabs, brewers’ drays and wagons laden with sacks of hay or crates filled with everything from tea to cow horns clattered over the cobbled streets, jostling each other for space. Bare-footed street urchins stood on street corners selling matches or bootlaces and others, too young or too poor even to afford small amounts of goods to trade, begged for money to buy food. Office clerks, merchants, law writers, housewives going to market and servants running errands, crowded the pavements making Irene’s progress slow and difficult. She headed for Goldsmith Street and the rabbit warren of dark alleys and courts that led off Gutter Lane . Opium dens and gambling hells were tucked away behind respectable city offices, banks, small shops and businesses. She knew them all by heart. As her recurring nightmares reminded her, she had stood on street corners from the age of five, acting as lookout while her father worked as a bookie’s runner, risking arrest by taking illegal bets. She had been too young to know what she was doing, but she had been instructed to watch out for the copper on his beat, and to warn her father if she saw one so that he had time to pocket the cash and run. They would slip into the shadows and disappear down the very alleyways that she was searching now. It had been terrifying at times but there had also been an element of fun, like playing a game of hide and seek. Pa could make the dullest day turn into an adventure especially when they were escaping the clutches of the law, which Pa said was designed for the benefit of the rich toffs and not for the likes of them. Irene had been indoctrinated at an early age to be wary of anyone wearing a uniform and above all to distrust the police. On the other hand, Ma had taught her the difference between right and wrong, and insisted that the cops were only doing their duty and should be respected. It had been very confusing. As her search progressed with no sign of her father, Irene was beginning to fear the worst. By late afternoon she was tired and hungry. Her feet were sore, her legs ached and she was just as she was about to give up and go home, when she heard a man’s voice raised in song. There was no mistaking the melodious notes of Pa’s pure baritone, and she had heard that particular ditty often enough to know that it was one of his favourites, only sung when he was well oiled. The sound was coming from the depths of a narrow alley in the shadow of Newgate prison. Without thinking of her own safety, Irene entered the twilight world between the grim buildings with soot-blackened windows peering blindly into the gloom. Men lounged in doorways smoking strange-smelling substances. She could tell by the other-worldly look on their faces that they were drugged with opium, but they paid her scant attention as she hurried towards a patch of light where the tenements and warehouses formed a square open to the sky. Sprawled on a pile of old sacks, she saw the familiar figure of her father who lay flat on his back singing loudly and interspersing the risqué words with loud guffaws of laughter. But he was not alone, and she skidded to a halt at the sight of a man dressed in black who was bending over her father. Her heart gave an uncomfortable thud against her ribcage. Was he robbing Pa? Or was he attempting to help him to his feet? She ran at the stranger and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Leave him be, mister. Don’t hurt my pa.’ He straightened up, flicking free of her grasp as if she were a small and irritating insect. ’Don’t be ridiculous. I mean him no harm.’ He was much taller than she had at first supposed, and this man was no common thief. His dark suit was well cut and his shirt collar and cuffs were starched and dazzling in their whiteness. From the crown of his black bowler hat to the tips of his shiny black leather shoes, he had the appearance of a City gentleman, but the piercing gaze of his startlingly blue eyes set beneath straight dark eyebrows seemed to bore into her soul. She was unused to such scrutiny and she backed away, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Unless she was very much mistaken, this bloke was a copper. She had been trained to spot one a mile off. ‘I’m sorry, mister. My mistake.’ He inclined his head in a brief acknowledgement of her apology. ‘If this man is your father, I suggest you take him home before he gets into real trouble.’ She bent down to tug at her father’s hand in a vain attempt to drag him to his feet. ‘Get up, Pa. ’ Billy opened his eyes, grinning foolishly. ‘Hello, Irene my duck.’ ‘Please get up, Pa. I’ve come to take you home.’ ‘I’m nice and comfy here, girl,’ Billy said, closing his eyes again and snuggling into the pile of dirty sacks as though it were a feather mattress. ‘I’ll just have forty winks …’ His voice trailed off into a loud snore. Irene knelt down on the filthy cobblestones. ‘Wake up or you’ll get done for being drunk and disorderly.’ She shook him by the shoulders but Billy did not respond. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the stranger was about to walk away. ‘Excuse me, mister,’ she called. ‘Could you give me a hand, please?’ He turned his head and regarded her with raised brows. ‘I have more important things to do right now.’ ‘I don’t think I can lift him on me own,’ Irene said, attempting to heave Billy to a sitting position. The alleyway had suddenly cleared of the men who were previously hanging about, but she knew that they would reappear the moment that the officer of the law departed, and she was afraid that if her father had any of his winnings left in his pockets they fall on them and take his money by force. She met the police officer’s cynical gaze with a straight look. ‘I’d be obliged, mister. Since it’s you who wants him moved on.’ He was at her side in two long strides and he hoisted Billy to his feet. ‘Can you stand on your own, man?’ ‘Shall we dance, cully?’ Billy asked with a tipsy grin, throwing an arm around the police officer’s neck. ‘Behave yourself, Pa,’ Irene said, blushing with embarrassment. She took her father’s free arm and hooked it around her shoulders. ‘I think I can manage him now, mister,’ she murmured. ‘Are you sure of that?’ He allowed her to take Billy’s full weight for a second or two but her knees buckled beneath her and she almost fell to the ground. ‘It’s obvious that you cannot,’ the officer said, relieving her of her burden and signalling to two uniformed constables who came hurrying towards them. ‘I’m afraid we lost them, Inspector Kent,’ the elder of the two said, eyeing Billy suspiciously. ‘Is this one of the gang, guv?’ ‘That’s my pa,’ Irene said hastily. ‘He’s a bit swipey but he’s no criminal.’ ‘Take him, Burton .’ Kent thrust Billy’s swaying frame into the arms of the fresh-faced younger officer. ‘He might have been involved but he’s too drunk to give us any useful information.’ Irene plucked at Kent ’s sleeve. ‘My pa don’t have nothing to do with the street gangs, mister – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ His lips twitched and a glimmer of humour lit his eyes. He inclined his head in a formal bow. ‘Inspector Edward Kent of the City of London Police - and you are?’ ‘I’m Irene Angel, and this here is my Pa, Billy Angel. We’re respectable folk. My mother has a pickle shop on the corner of Wood Street and Cheapside . Pa just likes a drink occasionally but he’s not a bad man.’ ‘We all know Billy Angel, sir,’ Constable Burton said in a low voice. ‘He’s a professional gambler, and he’s known to frequent illegal gaming houses. He’s also suspected of having dealings with the Sykes gang.’ ‘Now that’s a big black lie,’ Billy said, shaking his fist. ‘I’ve never been near Blue Boar Court in me whole life. It’s a case of mistaken identity.’ ‘I never mentioned Blue Boar Court ,’ Constable Burton said with a triumphant grin. ‘See, guv, he’s convicted hisself out of his own stupid mouth.’ Irene rounded on him. ‘Here, you watch your tongue, young man. You can see that my Pa ain’t quite hisself. He don’t know what he’s saying.’ She turned to Inspector Kent. ‘You wouldn’t hold what a drunken man says against him, would you?’ ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got time for this. Take him home, Miss Angel, or I will arrest your father for being drunk and disorderly.’ Kent dismissed her with a wave of his hand and he turned to the more senior officer. ‘I’ve business to attend to in Newgate, Davies. You’d best get back to the station and write up a report.’ The constable saluted smartly and marched off towards the main road. Billy watched him go with a mocking laugh. ‘That’s right, officer. Go away and leave a fellow in peace.’ ‘Come along, Pa,’ Irene said, tugging urgently at his arm. ‘Let’s get you home.’ He pulled free from her, and grinning stupidly he tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m on to a certainty, ducks. You go home and I’ll follow later.’ Constable Burton seized Billy by the scruff of the neck. ‘You heard the guvner, Billy. Do as he says or I’ll clap the cuffs on you and you can sober up in the cells until the magistrate’s court tomorrow morning.’ ‘Come quietly, Pa,’ Irene pleaded. ‘Ma’s out of her mind with worry and you know that always makes her rheumatics worse.’ She turned to Kent . ‘I promise I’ll keep an eye on him in future.’ ‘All right,’ he said coldly, ‘but if I come across Billy Angel in similar circumstances I won’t be so lenient. Burton , you’d best help Miss Angel to get her father home.’ ‘Yes, guv.’ A floodtide of relief surged through Irene and she reached out impulsively and shook Kent ’s hand. ‘Thank you, Inspector. You’re a toff. I won’t forget this in a hurry.’ He drew his hand away and his expression remained impassive. ‘Take my advice and keep away from your father’s cronies, Miss Angel, or we might meet again in even less fortunate circumstances.’ He turned on his heel and strode off into the dark alleyway. ‘Let’s get your pa home, miss,’ Burton said, struggling to keep Billy on his feet. Irene took her father’s free arm once again, and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘Come on, Pa. Please be a good boy and do as the constable says.’ ‘Damn coppers!’ Billy muttered, changing in a moment from tipsily happy to belligerent. ‘Never trust a cop, Renie. Don’t have nothing to do with ’em, that’s my advise.’ Irene cast an apologetic glance at Burton , who was looking distinctly wary at Billy’s sudden change in temper. ‘He don’t mean it, Constable. It’s just his way.’ ‘Don’t you talk to him, my girl,’ Billy said, slurring his words. ‘Remember what I’ve always taught you. Coppers are bad news. If I ever catch you stepping out with one of ’em, I’ll have to disown you, even though I loves you.’